


One Night in Whitebridge

by MelayneSeahawk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Riley/Sam Wilson, Sheriff Steve Rogers, carolers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 05:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18685345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/pseuds/MelayneSeahawk
Summary: Sheriff Steve Rogers thought Christmas Eve would be uneventful, until he got a call about a flashy car in a snow drift.





	One Night in Whitebridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shipallthethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipallthethings/gifts).



> Many thanks to shipallthethings for their generous donation to Lambda Legal for Marvel Trumps Hate! Their prompt was "a fluffy Christmas first date fic in the MCU", with AUs allowed.
> 
> Thank you also to theemdash for the awesome beta, and to pigsflew for giving me permission to start over when my first idea just wouldn't fly.
> 
> Whitebridge, Oregon doesn't exist, but the rest of the California/Oregon geography is real. I know nothing about small-town policing. Don't be like Tony: don't drink and drive.

Steve Rogers was, generally, a patient man. He has to be, as the sheriff of Whitebridge, Oregon, a small town with the same kinds of problems all small towns in America have these days: vanishing jobs, kids leaving for college, and those left behind with nothing to entertain them but getting drunk and causing trouble on a Saturday night. As if by the grace of some slightly caring god, Steve’s charges have been mostly quiet in the days leading up to Christmas, leaving Steve and his deputies with little to do except occasionally shovel someone’s driveway.

 

Christmas Eve had arrived, and someone had to man the station, so Steve had sent his deputies home to their families to do the duty himself. A few of the town’s residents had filled the tiny fridge in the breakroom with a veritable Christmas feast, and Steve had Ginger, the station’s cat, to keep him company. Snow was falling outside the window, and Steve could picture happy children watching the snow pile up. It was shaping up to be a quiet Christmas Eve, but just as Steve was considering reheating some of the food in the fridge, the phone rang, the light flashing to indicate the emergency line.

 

“Whitebridge Sheriff’s Department, what’s your emergency?” Steve answered, suppressing a sigh. At least the snow wasn’t bad enough that it would be a problem to get out to whoever might need help.

 

Sam Wilson’s voice came down the line. “Hey, Cap, sorry to call on Christmas Eve.” Sam was one of his deputies, and could be relied upon to keep his head in a crisis. “I was doing the rounds down by the bridge, and there’s a flashy sports car sticking out of a snowbank by the river.”

 

Steve’s eyes widened. Not a local, then; as far as Steve knew, the most expensive car in Whitebridge was the Lutheran church’s brand new 12-passenger van. “See if the driver’s alright, I’m on my way,” he said, putting on his coat as he stood. It looked like his Christmas Eve was going to be exciting after all.

 

***

 

Whitebridge was, perhaps unsurprisingly, named after the old bridge into town, spanning the Crooked River at one of its deeper points. Steve pulled off to the side as he approached the near end of the bridge where, as Sam had said, a fast-looking red car was buried almost to the windshield in a snowbank. The driver’s side door was open, and Sam was standing next to it, talking to someone seated inside. Steve approached, and Sam nodded in greeting.

 

“Anybody hurt?” Steve asked first, always his top priority.

 

“Not hurt, officer, just embarrassed,” the seated man said, looking up. He was very handsome, Steve noted absently, with artfully messy dark hair, a perfectly groomed goatee, and very sharp eyes.

 

“Understandable,” Steve said. “Sam, did you see the crash?”

 

“No, but from the tracks it looks like he didn’t take the turn at quite the right angle,” he said, and the seated man nodded. “Open bottle of liquor in the cab, too.” He handed Steve a bottle of scotch.

 

“Alright, up you get,” Steve said, stepping around Sam to offer the man a hand out of the car. “Sam, get me the breathalyzer.”

 

“Hey, no,” the man said, staring at Steve’s hand like it might bite, though at least he got out of the car. He was flashily dressed, a blazer over a loud t-shirt and fitted dark jeans, a pair of colorful sunglasses on the passenger seat along with a dark bundle that was probably a winter coat. “I’m fine, Officer... Rogers. Hit a patch of ice.”

 

“You can let me be the judge of that,” Steve said, taking the small machine from Sam and holding it out. “Blow, please.” The man looked like he might crack a joke, but stopped himself at the last moment and wordlessly did as he was told. “Point one,” Steve said, reading off the small screen. “Sir, if I could have your license and registration, please?”

 

“Ah, that’s nothing,” the man said, not reassuring Steve at all. “You know what an adaptive virtual assistant is? Probably not, Andy Griffith. It’s technical, like super technical, lots of fiddly bits and technobabble, and I built one while much less sober than I am now. Some might say I built it _because_ I was less sober than I am now.”

 

“Not the point,” Steve said firmly, but the man was unrepentant.

 

“Hey, you’re Tony Stark!” Sam said suddenly. “The arms and tech mogul, right?”

 

Steve took another look at the man as he offered his paperwork. Even in the dim light from Steve’s headlights, the man did look somewhat familiar. “Yeah, that’s me,” Stark said with a sigh. “Not arms anymore, though.”

 

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Sam said.

 

“And what brings you to Whitebridge, Mr. Stark?” Steve interrupted as he looked over the papers and then handed back everything but the license, taking it back to his patrol car to run it. Sam was a bit of a tech head, and Steve didn’t really want him to get started.

 

“Whitebridge?” Stark asked, surprised. “I’m supposed to be in Portland. Am I at least in Oregon?”

 

“You’re about three hours from Portland,” Sam said with a grin. “Not that you’ll get there tonight, with this snow and your… current problem.”

 

“Problem?” Stark asked, taking back his license when Steve offered it. “What problem?”

 

“You’ll be coming back to the station with me,” Steve said pleasantly. “Without the cuffs, if you’re willing the cooperate. Grab your coat.”  
  
Stark sighed again, like the whole situation was familiar… and boring to him. “Yeah, fine, I get my phone call, right?”

 

“Of course,” Steve said. “No tow truck in town, and I’m not calling over to Culver to get one on Christmas Eve. D’ya mind if my deputy drives your car over to the station?”

 

“Do I have a choice?” Stark asked, resigned, tossing Sam the keys. “Don’t treat her worse than I did, ok?”

 

“Of course not,” Sam said, grinning again. “See you at the station, Cap.”

 

Steve loaded Stark into the back of the patrol car, then got into the front. “Well, maybe this wasn’t how you might have liked it,” he said, pulling back out onto the road. “But welcome to Whitebridge, Mr. Stark.”

 

***

 

Sam was, understandably, grinning ear to ear when he arrived at the station. He assured Steve he’d driven the speed limit the entire way back, but he’d also arrived a good seven minutes after Steve had. Not much to do in Whitebridge, so Steve didn’t really blame him.

 

Steve let him take the patrol car home after settling Stark’s car in the lot, leaving Steve alone with Stark in the station. He pointed Stark to the other chair in his office, shifting the phone to place it in front of him. “One call,” he reminded Stark, putting his heavy winter coat on the rack and sitting down to start his paperwork. Always, more paperwork.

 

“Hey, Pepper,” Stark said once the line picked up. “So, I have some bad news…” He stopped and listened, a wince clear on his features. “No, I’m not in Portland. I’m in—” He looked at Steve, who pointed at the map of town behind him. “Whitebridge, Oregon. Population nine-hundred and eight, apparently.” He nodded, expression tense. “I’m at the police station, they’re charging me with a DUI, I guess?”

 

“Among other things,” Steve said.

 

“Among other things,” Stark parroted, but it was almost apologetic. Whoever this Pepper was, they were clearly able to convince Stark that he’d messed up. “I think they’re going to keep me overnight?”

 

Steve nodded.

 

“Can you call Willis and Salazar and tell them I’ll need to bow out?” He paused again, listening. “Yes, I know, I’m an irresponsible CEO and a terrible role model. You knew all that already.” He frowned and glanced up at Steve. “You’re not going to put this in your town paper or Twitter or anything, are you?”  
  
“I don’t see why I would need to,” Steve said, and Stark’s shoulders sagged in gratitude. “As long as you sober up tonight, pay your fines, and don’t cause any more trouble,” he added.

 

Stark responded with a two-fingered salute, then turned back to his call. “See, Pepper, police officers can be nice to me.” He frowned into the middle distance and then ducked his head and mumbled, “Yes, I know sometimes I deserve it.” Steve stifled a laugh at that. Stark listened for a little longer, responding occasionally, before hanging up. “Pepper, my PA, she says she’ll pay you our usual skilled contractor rates if you can talk any kind of sense into me.”

 

“I’m guessing that might be a challenge, Mr. Stark,” Steve said, allowing himself a smile, and Stark laughed.

 

“Tony, please.”

 

“Tony, I’ll need you to come with me,” Steve said, standing up. Stark looked at him questioningly. “Gotta put you in a cell, after all.”

 

“Is that really necessary?” Stark asked, but he stood and followed Steve back out into the main room that made up most of the station.

 

The station’s two small cells were along one wall, and Steve went to the first, unlocking the door and gesturing Stark inside. “I’ll be right here working on paperwork." He rapped his fist on Sam's desk, which was right in front of the jail cells. He could do paperwork as easily at Sam's desk as his own. "Let me know if you need the bathroom or anything.”

 

“Can I keep my phone?” Stark asked.

 

“Sure, go ahead,” Steve said after a moment’s thought. Technically Stark could use it to make another phone call—which was against the rules—but it was Christmas. “Though you can empty the rest of your pockets into here.” He shuffled through Sam’s desk and handed Stark an evidence bag.

 

Stark took the bag and emptied his pockets of a remarkable amount of stuff: wallet and keys, sure, but also headphones and a couple of memory sticks, some machine screws, a foil packet of dried papaya, and what looked like a small tool kit. He passed the bag back and sat on the cell’s cot, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “What do we do now?” he asked.

 

Steve closed the door and locked it, feeling a little silly while doing so. “Well, I’m going to go get you a blanket and pillow, and in a little bit I’ll heat up some food for us,” he said, heading to the supply closet.

 

“Ooh, bread and water, or some kind of adorably cartoonish gruel?” Stark called, and Steve couldn’t help his smile.

 

“Now, Mr. Stark, we may be a small town in the middle of nowhere, but we can do hospitality alright,” Steve called back, digging out a flat pillow and a thin but clean blanket. “And it’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

 

“So it is,” Stark said, and Steve found when he turned back that Stark had a pensive look on his face. “I’d completely forgotten. Is my arrest keeping you from being with your family?”

 

“Nah, no real family. And someone’s gotta man the phones even today, so here I am,” he said, though the admission felt oddly personal. “Let the deputies spend time with their families.” He passed the blanket and pillow through the bars, and watched as Stark used them as a pad between his back and the cell wall. “You had a Christmas Day meeting scheduled?”

 

“Oh, it was a goodwill thing with a company we contracted with for some aid work,” Stark said, waving a hand dismissively. He leaned forward to take off his coat and suit jacket and set them aside, settling back against the wall. “Flew in some kids to OSHU. The doctors are using some new Stark medtech. They don’t actually need me there for anything other than pictures, and that’s not important.” He tapped his phone in his open palm, a nervous tic, but not about missing the photo op. Steve would have assumed that a guy like Stark would be all about having his face on any little good deed he might do, but apparently not.

 

“Well, as long as the snow doesn’t get worse, you should make good time getting to Portland in the morning. You might make it after all.” Steve carefully wrote each of Stark’s belongings on the intake form, glancing up once or twice to see Stark had kept fidgeting with his phone but hadn’t turned it on.

 

“Hungry?” Steve asked, breaking the oddly comfortable silence. “I was just going to get myself some food before Sam called.”  


“I could eat,” Stark said with a slow smile.

 

Steve blinked, coloring slightly. “Uh, turkey or ham?”

 

“Sandwiches?” Stark asked.

 

“Not exactly,” Steve said, with a slow smile of his own.

 

***

 

Turkey or ham was, of course, the least complicated choice Stark had to make when Steve went through their full menu.

 

“You weren’t kidding about the hospitality,” Stark said, when Steve opened the cell door to pass him a plate full of Christmas turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. He took the plate and proffered utensils and sat back, expression surprised.

 

“They do this every year,” Steve said, passing Stark a glass of water and going back to Sam’s desk to sit down with his own plate. “Many of the families in town seem to think that just because I’m working and single on Christmas, it means I’m going to starve to death. The first year it was completely crazy, I brought most of the food to one of the churches to add to their charity feast. Now I think they coordinate who’s doing what each year, so I don’t get inundated quite so much.”

 

“That’s so sweet,” Stark said, and Steve was surprised by the lack of sarcasm or judgment in his face or tone. “You’re not from around here originally?”

 

“Oh, no,” Steve said, focusing on his turkey for a minute. “Brooklyn, born and raised. Dad died with I was little. Mom passed when I was in high school, best friend’s parents took me in. We enlisted straight out of high school, and when I got done, there wasn’t much left for me in New York, so I followed Sam home.” Steve was surprised how easy it was to tell Stark—Tony—all this, but he was a surprisingly good listener.

 

“You probably know all about me already,” Tony said, but Steve shook his head.

 

“Not really,” he said. “I stay in the little bubble of the town, mostly. Simpler, that way. I remember using Stark munitions, though.”

 

“Huh,” Tony said. Steve could clearly tell that he wasn’t used to people not knowing all about him, or at least thinking they did. “Well, I grew up in Manhattan. Currently living on the West Coast to oversee the LA plant. Did that when I took over the company, feels like forever ago now. I’m still back and forth a lot.” Tony held up a forkful of turkey, waving it at Steve. “I don’t really love LA, but the Malibu house is just mine, no family memories in it. Uh,” he stopped, suddenly embarrassed. “That was maybe an overshare.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said, feeling warm inside in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He mentally rolled his eyes at himself and tried to set the warm feeling aside.

 

“Why did you leave the military?” Tony asked. Steve blinked, and Tony started to backpedal. “I mean, if you want to share, you don’t have to, what am I even doing—”

 

“It’s ok,” Steve said, thinking about precisely how he wanted to answer. It was a lot to hear no matter how he parsed it, and strangers never needed the whole story. “After my best friend was KIA, I decided I’d done my time.” Tony nodded like that made sense to him. Losing Buck had torn Steve up inside, his best friend and his boyfriend all at once. He and Sam had bonded over that kind of loss at the VA, and when Sam had decided to come back to Whitebridge, it was a foregone conclusion Steve would follow him. “What made you decide to stop making weapons?”

 

Tony laughed, clearly surprised. “Well, do you want the publicity reason, or the real answer?” he asked, a conspiratorial smirk on his lips.

 

***

 

They continued to chat while they ate, and Steve found himself relaxing in Tony’s presence in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He’d felt so disconnected from everything after Bucky died, and the situation in Whitebridge had allowed him to further isolate himself. He was friendly with the citizens of his town, of course, but as a transplant and their sheriff he always felt separate from them. He even felt that way about his deputies; he was their boss, after all. But he didn’t have to be the calm and collected Sheriff Rogers while talking to Tony. He could tell him about the time he fell off the top of the patrol car trying to get Ginger out of a tree without having to worry about someone not trusting him to do his job properly. And Tony seemed relaxed, too, his expression shifting into something comfortable and familiar as the haze of the alcohol wore off.

 

Steve realized they’d both been done with their food for a while, and chuckled slightly. “I hope you left room for pie,” he said, standing up and stretching.

 

Tony made a small inarticulate noise, and Steve glanced at him to make sure he was ok. He seemed fine, but he was blushing, and Steve had the sudden realization that Tony had been checking him out.

 

“Pie sounds great,” Tony said. “What kind do you have?” But something in his voice made it feel like he was asking a completely different question.

 

“Uh, let me check,” Steve stammered, turning away to hide his blush. He then realized he could hear singing and shuffling steps outside and glanced up at the clock. “Carolers first, I guess.” He started for the door, then noticed he’d left Tony’s cell door open when he’d given him his food. “Um, they shouldn’t be long,” he said, scurrying over to close and lock it.

 

“And I’ll sit here and pretend to be a suitably chastised citizen,” Tony said, crossing his arms behind his head and smirking.

 

Steve could feel his blush growing hotter and tried not to think about how appealing Tony's confidence was while he  hurried to the breakroom for the tub of homemade cookies, also provided by the kind people of Whitebridge. He went to the front door and opened it, positioning himself so he was blocking most of the view into the station.

 

“Hi, Sheriff Steve!” came the call from the youngest carolers, while a couple of the more helpful older kids came up to get the cookies to start passing them out to kids and parents alike.

 

“How’s the caroling tonight?” he asked, going through the sort-of script he’d settled into after his second winter on the job.

 

“Cold!” said one of the littlest kids to a chorus of laughter.

 

“Ready, everyone,” said Ms. Maximoff, the only music teacher at Whitebridge’s one school. They sang a mostly tuneful rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Steve took a quick glance over his shoulder, and saw that Tony looked a little misty-eyed. Steve smiled softly at him before turning back.

 

After a much more upbeat “Jingle Bells” and a tortured “Carol of the Bells,” Ms. Maximoff and the parents gathered up their charges and continued on to the next house, leaving Steve and Tony alone with the empty cookie tub. Steve came back inside, put the tub in the sink in the breakroom, and returned with two slices of pumpkin pie. He passed a slice to Tony and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled over a chair so he could sit next to the cell’s open doorway. He wouldn’t go in, but sitting outside would be fine, right?

 

“You know, used to be the only reason I knew about places like this was television,” Tony said quietly. “The only time I’m not in a city is when I’m going to a different city.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with that,” Steve said, pie forgotten. “It’s all just different ways to live. Not better or worse, necessarily.”

 

“I’m constantly running around,” Tony said, almost as if Steve hadn’t spoken. “I wonder sometimes if it would be easier if I could just slow down.”

 

Steve was quiet with that for a moment, not sure what to say. “Well, I don’t know you very well,” he began finally. “But I do think you might be underwhelmed with what Whitebridge has to offer.”

 

“You know me better than most people I’m forced to spend time with,” Tony said, but his dark mood seemed to lighten some. “They all know Magazine Tony. Tabloid Tony.” He glanced over at Steve from under his lashes, and Steve’s breath caught for just a moment. “And I think I’ve found at least one thing about Whitebridge that I find interesting.”

 

“Don’t,” Steve said, but instead of firm and commanding his tone was soft, almost teasing. Tony grinned, clearly pleased to be getting to him. Steve gestured with his fork. “Eat your pie.”

 

***

 

Tony ate his pie, naturally, but that didn’t mean he shut up about anything. Around 3 am, Steve finally suggested Tony try to rest up, but Tony wasn’t having any of it.

 

“There is no way I’m going to be able to sleep on this torture device,” Tony said, tapping the frame of the cot. “And don’t you need to be awake for the phones? We can keep each other company.”

 

Steve had been planning to sit with a cup of coffee in his office, but the thought of even a little more time with Tony was much more appealing than another quiet night. “As long as you’ll be alright to drive in the morning,” he said.

 

“Definitely,” Tony said, before letting out a big yawn. “Uh, on second thought, maybe a little nap might be just what the sheriff ordered.”

 

“Funny,” Steve said, smiling despite himself. “Need the bathroom or anything?” Tony nodded and Steve gestured to the appropriate room. “Don’t go running off on me.”

 

“Nah, you won’t get rid of me that easily,” Tony said, ambling off.

 

Steve gathered up the various discarded dishes, setting them in the breakroom sink to deal with later. He locked Tony back in the cell, looking down at where he was making a nest of his pillow, blanket, and winter coat, smile turning fond. “Don’t worry if you hear some clattering around, it’s just our cat Ginger. She’s usually really shy, you probably won’t see her.”

 

“Ghost cat, ok,” Tony said, yawning again.

 

“Sleep well, Tony,” Steve said, a little helplessly. Somehow, saying goodnight to him felt like parting after a date, which was just silly.

 

“I’m sure I’ll have good dreams,” Tony said, with that seductive curl of his lip that Steve was already too familiar with. “Wait! Stay ‘til I fall asleep?”

 

“Really? Fine,” Steve said, trying to sound long-suffering and knowing he was failing. He pulled Sam’s chair around the front of the desk and leaned back into it, feet on one of the crossbars of the cell, meeting Tony’s eyes.

 

Tony’s grin was brilliant.

  


***

 

Steve woke with a start when his phone rang his usual morning alarm. How he’d managed to fall asleep, he had no idea. He stood from his chair, stretching.

 

"Falling asleep on the job, Officer Rogers. Tsk, tsk, what will your cop buddies say?"

 

Steve looked over at Stark, fumbling for a joke about Tony being a boring conversationalist, but the joke died when he spotted Ginger, defying all logic, curled up on Tony’s chest where he was lying on the cot.

 

“I think your ghost cat likes me,” Tony said.

 

“Seems like it,” Steve said, charmed. Ginger didn’t precisely hate strangers, but she definitely avoided them. “Sleep alright?”

 

“Well enough,” Tony said. “Scram, Catzilla,” he added, gently encouraging Ginger onto the cot so he could sit up. The cat went, but Steve could hear her purring.

 

Steve unlocked the cell door, shaking his head in amazement. “I don’t even think she likes Natasha that much,” he said, opening the cell door wide.

 

Tony gathered his coat and suit jacket and stepped out. “So I’m a free man?” Tony said, smile absolutely wicked.

 

Steve swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Once I give you back your things and you sign some paperwork, yeah.” He grabbed the evidence bag and the forms Tony needed to sign. They spent a few minutes focused on the bureaucracy, but soon enough they were done, leaving Steve floundering for a reason, any reason, to encourage Tony to stay. “I’d suggest you stop in town for breakfast before you go, but everything will be closed.”

 

“When do you get… done today?” Tony asked, with an expression like it hurt him not to make the obvious dirty joke.

 

“When Natasha gets in, which should be any minute now,” Steve said. “I’m going to put up a pot of coffee for her, want some?”

 

“Coffee sounds great.”

 

Steve busied himself with setting up the ancient coffee maker, brain spinning. He wanted to ask Tony out, but would that even be right, considering how they’d met? And sure, they’d talked and talked the night before, but the circumstances were so unusual, and what would someone like Tony see in someone like Steve?

 

“Merry Christmas, Steve!” Natasha called as she came in the front door. “Mr. Stark,” she added, and Steve realized Sam must have let her know about what had happened last night.

 

“Officer,” Tony said, somewhat warily.

 

“Officer Wilson likes to keep me up to date,” she said breezily. “Doing alright now?” Steve came back just in time to see Tony wave his hand dismissively.

 

“Merry Christmas, Nat,” Steve said, passing her one of the cups of coffee he was holding, before passing the second to Tony. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, and Steve glared, which just made her expression shift to a knowing smirk. “Mr. Stark will probably be heading out shortly. We’re not going to be… publicizing his visit.”

 

“Of course not,” Natasha said, as if the very idea were insulting. “Go on, your shift is done anyway.”

 

Tony somehow managed to gulp down his entire cup of coffee while Steve was grabbing his coat, because when he returned with it Tony was putting on his coat, chatting with Natasha about whether she thought he’d find anywhere open for breakfast before he hit Portland. “I’ll see you tonight, Natasha,” Steve said, heading for the door, wondering what Tony would do next. Wondering what _he_ would do next.

 

As it turned out, Tony followed him out the door and into the tiny parking lot next to the station, where Steve remembered that Sam still had his patrol car. “I guess I’m walking,” he said, as Tony came up next to him.

 

“That’s ridiculous,” Tony said, looking around at the accumulated snow, the flakes still falling, and the unshoveled sidewalks. “I can drive you.”

 

“No snowbanks, please,” Steve said, and Tony threw his head back in laughter.

 

“Not a problem,” he said, circling his flashy car to open the passenger door for Steve. Steve shook his head, chuckling, and got in. “Just tell me which way to go.”

 

The drive to Steve’s was silent but for his directions, and too soon they were at his front door, Tony glancing around curiously. Steve got out of the car, unsurprised when Tony got out, too, and stood with him on the sidewalk in front of Steve’s postage stamp yard.

 

“So I’m not sure it would be appropriate for me to invite you in for breakfast,” Steve began, and Tony looked like he was going to argue. “But maybe on your way back from Portland, you might want to make a detour? We could… we could grab dinner, or something.”

 

Tony’s smile was incandescent. “It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can now find me on tumblr! [melayneseahawk](http://www.melayneseahawk.tumblr.com), of course


End file.
